


Starts with an L. (Ends with a double s.)

by LunaDeSangre



Series: Infinite Possibilities [10]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oz Magi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 21:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17568683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: "What do you want," he doesn't quite ask, not expecting an answer."I don't know," Alvarez whispers. "But I know what I don't want."





	Starts with an L. (Ends with a double s.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustandroses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustandroses/gifts).



> Oz Magi 2018, Wish 13, Request 1:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Miguel/Ryan  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: I’m up for anything  
> Canon/AU/Either: Canon  
> Special Requests: sexy  
> Story/Art/Either: Either

**1997:**

"Hey, O'Reily," Alvarez drawls from the pod's open door, "how you doin'?"

Sprawled on the beds' bottom bunk reading a magazine, Ryan is surprised into an amused snort: Alvarez is so high it actually sounds like a pick-up line. "If you're here to ask me out to prom night," he drawls right back, "I'm not interested. Find yourself another date."

"Nah," Alvarez easily answers, "wouldn't want to get my feet trampled on all over the dancefloor. And you'd look terrible in a dress."

Okay, Ryan might have brought that one out on himself with his prom comment. "Can't imagine you in a tux either," he retorts, not letting his unease show—it reminds him of Beecher in a dress and that's an image that still makes him _sick_.

Alvarez leans against the doorjamb and actually seems to consider it. "I'd look like a penguin," he decides, one hand going to his stomach, under his shirt, and starting some kind of slow, hypnotic little circling. He's got long fingers, warm-looking skin, and very taut abs.

"Why are you here?" Ryan sits up to ask. The question is a good distraction from what Alvarez's fingers are doing, and he really is puzzled: it's not like they're friends or anything, and he's got nothing the Latino wants.

"Your door is open," Alvarez points out— _actually_ points out, tone half-questioning and eyebrows comically knotted.

"I'm trying to air this damn fishbowl out," Ryan explains, still not getting it. "You wouldn't believe how much Beecher farts."

Alvarez laughs. It's a nice laugh—more air than sound, but genuine, like you never hear in here: not mean, not sarcastic, not even the out-of-control hysterical thing that screams _addict_. Maybe he's not that high, after all.

"Seriously, Alvarez," Ryan asks again, unable to stop a worryingly-real answering grin from forming on his own face, "why are you bothering me instead of your amigos? They quick you out of the schoolyard?"

"You're interesting," Alvarez says, like it's the whole explanation. He goes back to his abs-rubbing, leaning in the doorway and staring at Ryan, a little grin on his face. There's something alluring about it—about _all_ of him: the way he stands there letting the doorframe support him, body language open and relaxed, loose but still self-possessed, not even the most subtle trace of anything menacing or provocative.

"I'm interesting," Ryan repeats, narrowing his eyes at him, trying to figure out the angle. He doesn't understand, and he _hates_ not understanding.

"And I'm bored," Alvarez finally explains.

"Ah," Ryan says flatly. "Sorry, I don't do neat tricks for entertainment."

Alvarez snorts. "You wanna play checkers? Cards? Chess? I'm up for anything," he asks, eyebrows pointing nearly all the way to his hairline. He's still rubbing his damn abs, and that smile has never left his face. There's more here than just _bored_ , but damn if Ryan knows _what_.

"Alright," he answers, standing from his bunk and leaving his magazine there. "Checkers." It's slow and easy—maybe he can solve this new puzzle while they play.

Alvarez turns in the doorway to let him pass, body still leant against the frame, eyes following him with that easy, weirdly-enticing half-grin, and Ryan feels the heat of him all along his side without even brushing by close enough to touch.

"Close the door," he calls back without turning around, ambling to the closest empty table and hearing the scrap of the chair he'd used to hold it open in response.

Alvarez's eyes stay incomprehensibly warm on his back the whole way there.

 

**1998:**

Gloria isn't the only one who takes care of him when he's sick. She's not the only one who makes him feel—who makes him feel _safe_ , like he really, really shouldn't, in here.

It's just that: he knows what her motives are.

Alvarez, he doesn't understand: it's not like the guy's ever stared at his ass, like Adebisi, Ross or fucking Schillinger—it's not like Alvarez was ever desperate for a friend, like Beecher. Just _bored_ one time, he said, and finding him _interesting_ in some way Ryan can't puzzle out.

And always there, somehow. In the corner of Ryan's eyes, quiet and unobstructive somewhere on the side, like he's keeping watch. Right front and center if Ryan is struggling to get up, and then tucked under his arm, holding him up, helping him walk to the bathroom without Ryan even needing to say _anything_.

He pukes his guts out in the toilet, dizzily ending up on his knees on the cold tiled floor, and still Alvarez's there, one hand on his shoulder, the other rubbing his back. It shouldn't be fucking comforting.

Alvarez lets go to get him a glass of water from somewhere, and for all of those five seconds he's not there it feels like the whole fucking world is lurching, Ryan worst of all, with nothing and nobody to anchor him down. Then Alvarez is back, pushing a paper cup in Ryan's hands, against Ryan's mouth, and saying _Hey, you're okay_ and _Just breathe_ , and _Spit_.

Ryan does, nearly folding over, nearly collapsing, and Alvarez's there, tugging him back against him, holding him up like a smooth solid wall. When the world stops spinning, Ryan is fucking trembling in the guy's arms, his sweat-soaked back to Alvarez's chest, Alvarez's long, warm fingers rubbing hypnotic little circles against his stomach through the thin hospital gown. It's comforting in a way it really shouldn't be.

"What are you doing?" Ryan asks, too worn out to bother with any pretense.

"Helping," Alvarez answers, voice gravelly but somehow soft, breath hot against Ryan's naked skull. "I'm helping you."

"Because I'm interesting?" Ryan croaks, unable to stop his face from doing some kind of wry half-smile.

"You are," Alvarez drawls, sounding amused, "and you're a lot less trouble than all those angry fucks back there."

"I'm too fucking tired to be angry," Ryan admits with an exhausted snort.

He's too worn out to keep himself upright, too: he looses his balance, a little, and Alvarez is there, arms tight around his waist and back, hauling them both back to their feet, basically taking all of Ryan's weight against his front. The curve of his neck is cool against Ryan's burning eyelids.

He helps Ryan back to his hospital bed and then into a new gown, far too gentle and far too kind, brown eyes far too big and far too warm. Far too safe— _far too safe to be real_ : nothing else makes any sense.

Gloria isn't the only one who takes care of him when he's sick, but she's the only one he chooses to remember. Because Alvarez has no say in working there, but _she_ does, and she's beautiful, and kind, and safe, and she's got prettier eyes.

It's not quite true, but that's not the point.

 

**2003:**

"Hey, O'Reily," Alvarez says softly, quietly opening the closet's only door.

Sitting on the floor against the wall, Ryan is actually startled: his brother is dead, and nothing makes sense. In those last few days, he's found himself often needing a dark, quiet place, just to breathe, just so he doesn't crack—he's stopped expecting anything other than loneliness.

Alvarez doesn't ask how Ryan is doing. He simply slides in, closes the door, and sits next to him—not too close, but not that far away either. Ryan feels the heat of him all along his side, and has to close his eyes against the rush of _something_ —something that is finally _not_ the numb, ever-expanding horror he's been overfilling with since that last night in Cyril's cell.

"Sosimo," Alvarez whispers, after a while. "My son. I wanted to name him Sosimo—I _did_ name him Sosimo anyway. It's an old name," he continues, voice gravelly soft, "I've never known anyone named like that." A little huff of breath. "I thought it'd be better, for him. To at least have a firstname not associated with—all this bullshit."

"It was my fault," Ryan croaks. "Cyril. His head. His... It was my fault. It was all my fault." He doesn't know why he says it—but it's dark and quiet and Alvarez is here, and it's a bit like confession except without the weight of God's all-seeing, uncaring eyes, and the subjective assessment of even the best-intentioned priest.

"He'd be alive if it wasn't for me," Miguel says next to him, still in that same quiet rumbling tone, like a weather-beaten caress.

And Ryan has to close his eyes tightly, against the sudden rush of burning tears and that huge _thing_ trying to claw its way out of his throat.

He sags a little, collapsing on himself to hold it in, and Alvarez reaches out for him, both arms, both long-fingered hands. Ryan falls into him somehow, lips first: just seeking warmth and solace—thoughtlessly.

It's not like with Gloria: he doesn't hear Cyril screaming. It's just Alvarez and Alvarez's warm lips against his and Alvarez's hot tongue tangling with his own and not a thought in his head. Alvarez's fingers in his hair and against his jaw and the side of his neck, and Alvarez's solid warm body against him—all along him and all over him. And _not a thought in his head_.

" _You're_ not disgusting," Alvarez pulls off just enough to mumble, like his mouth is just following some thought scrambled off from his head—or from Ryan's.

Ryan arches off the floor and kisses him again, clutching him closer, refusing to question anything, and Alvarez falls back into him, with just as much intensity, just as much reckless hunger. It's mindless and hot and sweet and unexplainable: it makes no sense, in the exact same way nothing about Alvarez makes sense, and yet it's _there_ —like Alvarez.

"What do you want," Alvarez doesn't quite ask between breaths, raw and raspy, right against Ryan's lips. His eyes are too deep—bottomless pools of dark warmth, and Ryan is far too close to not drown in.

"I don't know," he whispers back, uselessly closing his eyes, dizzy and lost. And then, stirred by a memory from a few lifetimes ago, unable to stop a tired little smirk from forming on his face: "I'm up for anything."

Alvarez kisses him again—kisses him again like he doesn't need to breathe, as if Ryan is more necessary than air. Ryan doesn't so much kisses back as melts—against, into and around him, like nothing else ever has or ever will matter but _this_. Like nothing else matters, because nothing else exists—not now, not like this.

There's no clear decision and no clear progression: it goes from kissing to kissing to kissing, layers disappearing, pressed so tight and so warm together, no space and no air, just kissing and kissing and kissing and never stopping. Alvarez rocks against him and he rocks against Alvarez, and grasps at Alvarez like Alvarez is grasping at him: nothing but raw need and starved desperation, too hot and too sweet and too impossibly real—too impossibly _there_ , and there _together_. He sees fucking _stars_ when he comes, Alvarez's low, low groan reverberating down to his very bones through their still-joined mouths.

He's on his back on the floor when he gradually becomes aware of the world again. Shirt missing, pants and underwear tugged up but not fastened, and somehow not panicking that he's just effectively sort-of had sex with a man. Alvarez is sitting next to him, equally half-naked— _right_ next to him, warmly pressed against his waist, one leg tucked under himself and the other folded up, left elbow resting on top. He's doing that slow abs-rubbing thing of his—but _on Ryan_.

With the harsh closet light behind him, his normally dark eyes are unfathomably so, and his face is a strangely soft sort of stony, like one of those centuries-olds baroque statues in some of Ryan's magazines: perfectly carved, perfectly painted, and seemingly impossibly infused with all the mysteries of the universe. He traces comforting, hypnotic little circles on Ryan's naked stomach, over and over and over, a wry little half-smile forming on his reddened full lips, and _still_ , now, after all this, Ryan doesn't understand.

"What do you want," he doesn't quite ask, not expecting an answer.

"I don't know," Alvarez whispers. "But I know what I don't want."

Slowly, his hand climbs up, smoothing over the shivering flesh of Ryan's ribs, chest, neck—a slow, far too intimate caress of long, warm fingers, trailing a strangely gentle fire all along Ryan's skin.

Ryan just lets him, too tired and too enticed to move, and Alvarez brushes the same hand down the side of his face, long warm fingers curled, light and soft as feathers.

"And I know what _you_ don't want," he murmurs, stroking Ryan's cheek like a lover.

And Ryan understands, finally: he too knows what he doesn't want. He closes his eyes and turns his face into Alvarez's hand, mutely, and Alvarez bends down to kiss him again.


End file.
